


Tous les Matins du Monde

by Donna_Immaculata



Series: Nightshapes [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blow Jobs, Domestic, Drunkenness, Fingerfucking, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“That’s a night-out in Berlin for you,” Athos says. He invites d’Artagnan in with a gesture and walks back to the living room, past the door that has fallen shut behind Porthos and Aramis. “How did that happen? Aramis never gets like this. Did he take drugs?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tous les Matins du Monde

**Author's Note:**

> Second part of the ongoing modern AU, in which they are indie filmmakers in Berlin.
> 
> A huge thank you to [JWAB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JWAB/pseuds/JWAB) for sharing her music expertise. I quoted you almost verbatim in the paragraph describing the performance.

“Who would’ve thought that you’d take to organised crime like that,” Porthos shakes his head as he squeezes his large frame through the gap behind the sofa on which Athos is sitting, which he does because he’d rather not be struck down by Athos’ glare if he dared walk between him and the screen. “Want another beer?”

“Yeah.” Athos doesn’t take his eyes off the screen where he’s currently very successfully committing grand theft auto. “Put it on the table.” 

“You haven’t finished your first one yet.”

“Throw it away. It’s gone flat.”

Porthos laughs, picks up the discarded bottle and pours its contents out of the window. “You’re a maniac.”

“You’re the one to talk.” Athos inclines his head to indicate the desk with Porthos’ laptop. “How’s the winning streak? Still going strong?”

“Yep.” Porthos flops back into his desk chair and cracks his knuckles. “I’m going to be so rich, motherfuckers.”

“How much did you win?” 

“Tonight? Six hundred euros so far. And I’m not finished yet.” 

“Really? I had no idea online poker was that lucrative.”

“It is if you’re good.” Porthos logs back in. “Now shut up and drive that car, baby. I’ve got work to do.”

When the doorbell rings an hour later, neither of them so much as looks up from what they’re doing. It rings again, and again, and Porthos grunts impatiently.

“Shouldn’t you perhaps open the door?” Athos says.

“Ah, he’s pissed and can’t be bothered to search for his key. He just needs to try harder.”

“Perhaps he left it at home.”

“In that case it serves him right.

“Fair point.”

They ignore the ringing, but the moment the hammering starts, both look up.

“There’s someone at the door,” Athos says. “And he’s not in a good mood.”

Porthos is already halfway down the hall. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Athos logs off and gets to his feet, apprehension creeping up from the pit of his stomach. He hears Porthos curse, somebody’s talking, and he follows Porthos into the hall. Porthos is standing directly under the lamp, and the glaring light makes him look even bigger and more imposing than usual, even though he’s wearing only his pants and a vest. He’s supporting Aramis with one arm. D’Artagnan steps in behind Aramis and puts Aramis’ guitar case down. “What took you so bloody long?” he complains, massaging his own shoulder. “I’ve been ringing that fucking doorbell for ages, one of your neighbours let me in downstairs.”

“We thought Aramis forgot his key.”

“And you lock him out when he does that?”

“It’s for his own good,” Athos says in a carefully blank voice. “How else is he to learn?”

Aramis retches, and Porthos curses again, drags him down the hall and pushes open the door to the toilet with his knee.

“I don’t think there’s any more to come!” d’Artagnan calls after him. “He already puked in the pub. And on the way here. And downstairs in the doorway.”

“That’s a night-out in Berlin for you,” Athos says. He invites d’Artagnan in with a gesture and walks back to the living room, past the door that has fallen shut behind Porthos and Aramis. “How did that happen? Aramis never gets like this. Did he take drugs?”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “I don’t think so. He drank enough vodka to drown a small Balkan country, though.”

“And you let him?”

“I’m not his babysitter.” D’Artagnan says distractedly, looking around. “Wow.”

“You’ve never been here, have you?”

“No.” D’Artagnan takes in the huge room; the large windows opening to two sides, the stuccoed ceiling. The L-shaped sofa sprawled by the wall, beneath the beamer, and the pull-out screen on the opposite wall, the shelves along the walls. “How many DVDs do they have?”

“Who knows?” Athos shrugs and raises his eyebrows at d’Artagnan in an unspoken question, but d’Artagnan isn’t looking at him, still trying to take in the interior. “Is that a real biedermeier stove?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it work?”

“It does. They only use it on special occasions, though, or when the central heating breaks down. Heating with coal is messy, and someone has to carry it in buckets all the way upstairs.”

D’Artagnan walks to the far end of the room, to where Porthos’ equipment is stacked. Porthos keeps his camera and monitor in his room, but the tripods, a set of LED lights and stands, his barndoor kit, the boom, and the boxes with filters, diffusers, and gels are stored in the living room. “I can see now why he’s always skint,” d’Artagnan says. “This stuff must’ve cost a fortune.”

“He prefers having his own equipment, rather than having to rent it,” Athos says. “Do you want a beer?”

“Sure.”

“The kitchen’s across the hall,” Athos jabs his thumb at the door. Why is Porthos not coming back? Athos grabs his forgotten beer bottle from the table and takes a deep swig. He’d love to walk over and help Porthos handle Aramis, but remains rooted to the spot. Ironically, ever since that thing between him and Aramis took off, he’s been feeling much more like an intruder in Aramis and Porthos’ domesticity than ever before. Aramis and Porthos are a team, so attuned to each other, so utterly accustomed to supporting each other with looks and words and deeds; whereas the balance between himself and Aramis is always slightly more precarious. It’s never bothered him before, but now he feels as if by having sex with Aramis he has manoeuvred himself to the fringe of their group. 

D’Artagnan comes back in. “There’s a shower in the middle of the kitchen,” he says. “Is that an interior-design statement?”

“That was the most elegant solution.” Athos says. The contraption is so familiar to him, he never questions it, but he’s now seeing it through d’Artagnan’s eyes. Aramis and Porthos are living in the last house in Berlin-Mitte that has remained unaffected by the redevelopment boom of the recent years; it is the lone bastion of old-school East-Berlin charm and the proud eyesore in the gentrified neighbourhood. “When they moved in, the only bathroom was a communal one downstairs, and there were communal toilets on every second floor. Porthos figured out the plumbing of the place in no time and installed a toilet in the larder and a shower in the kitchen.”

“So they just shower in front of each other?” d’Artagnan asks. “What if they have people staying over?”

“It’s opaque,” Athos says. “It’s not as though they parade naked in front of other people. Well, Aramis perhaps.” He attempts to smile, but aborts the attempt straightaway.

“Cool,” d’Artagnan says. He throws himself onto the sofa and points his chin at the screen. “Who’s playing?”

“I am.” Athos sits in a chair across d’Artagnan. “Why did he get so drunk?”

“I don’t know.” D’Artagnan shrugs. “That bloke turned up, and Aramis went all funny.”

“What bloke?”

“Never seen him before. Dirty blond, straggly hair. One moment, Aramis was singing that Alabama 3 song, the one he did the other week, the next moment that bloke was there, just standing at the bar and looking at him. When they finished the song, he walked up to Aramis, they talked, and then they sang the next one together. I thought Ferrand was quite pissed off about it actually. But then, he always looks grim.”

 _Sinking_. Athos remembers vividly the last time he saw Aramis and Ferrand perform the song, a few weeks ago. It feels so much longer than that, but a lot has happened in the meantime. He wasn’t having sex with Aramis then. Having sex with Aramis hadn't even crossed his mind yet.

There was something very pleasing about watching him play, though. His guitar strummed the drumbeat, and Ferrand’s viola da gamba carried the organ line. Aramis’ voice isn’t quite deep enough to do the song justice, but he compensated for it by speak-whispering the lyrics up close to the mic. It was effective, Athos gives him that. Aramis knows how to be effective. 

The noises from the hall tell him that Porthos is walking Aramis to his room. Athos can no longer keep away. “Wait here,” he tells d’Artagnan and strides out. Converted from a former attic, Aramis’ room is at the very end of the long corridor, and they climb five steps up onto an elevated landing. Athos walks ahead of Porthos and opens the door for him, and Porthos dumps Aramis on the bed. Against his dark hair and suit, Aramis’ face looks deathly white.

“D’Artagnan was right, I don’t think there’s anything left in his stomach to throw up,” Porthos says as he begins to untie Aramis’ shoe laces and pull off his boots and socks. Athos kneels down on the bed and removes Aramis’ tie. “Lift him up, let me get his suit.”

Aramis’ arm slips off the edge of the futon when they move him, and light catches in his black nail polish. Athos reaches for his hand without thinking. He passes his thumb over Aramis’ wrist in an attempt to feel the reassuring beat of his pulse. 

“C’mon, help me get this off him,” Porthos says. “You can pet him later.”

Athos’ blood turns to water. Does Porthos know? He didn’t think Aramis told him. He lifts Aramis up without a word and helps Porthos peel off his suit jacket. 

“You can manage the rest alone.” Porthos gets to his feet and throws the jacket onto a pile of clothes in an armchair. “I’ll fetch water.”

Porthos walks out, and Athos dares breathe again. His face is burning, he’s sure of it. He feels caught out and wrong-footed, even though he’s not sure if Porthos meant anything by it at all. He can’t ask him if he knows, and he can’t ask Aramis, either, not in the state he’s in. “You bastard,” he whispers. “You stupid, stupid bastard.” He begins to unbutton Aramis’ shirt, and how can this feel so right and so wrong at the same time? He’s done this before, at least half a dozen of times. (“Three times,” his mind supplies, unbidden, “three times a button-down shirt, twice a t-shirt.”) But this, this is more intimate and more impersonal at the same time. It feels wrong, touching Aramis like this when he’s unable to participate. It’s almost like taking advantage of an unconscious person, because something about it does feel good. It feels good to be touching Aramis once again, it’s been four days since their last time together. He unbuttons the shirt and tugs it down Aramis’ shoulders as far as possible, and then he rolls him onto his side to pull off one sleeve, and then the other. He adds the shirt to the pile of clothes and begins to unbutton Aramis’ trousers.

Aramis stirs, and when Athos looks up, he encounters that intense dark gaze that pins him to the spot. “I won’t,” Aramis whispers. He curls his fingers around Athos wrist, presses his hand to his crotch and shakes his head. “I can’t…”

“You stupid wanker,” Athos says in a low voice. At the sound of Aramis’ ill voice, something melts inside him and he realises that what he felt was not lust but tenderness, a whole huge wave of tenderness that swept him under. He pulls Aramis’ trousers down his legs, awash with relief, and hauls Aramis fully onto the mattress. “Sleep,” he says and kisses him on the forehead. “Everything’s fine.”

Porthos comes back in carrying a bottle of water. He looks at Aramis and raises his eyebrows at Athos. Athos nods. ‘He’s asleep,’ he mouthes.

For such a large man, Porthos certainly knows how to move soundlessly. He waits for Athos to follow him out of the room and closes the door quietly. “Did d’Artagnan tell you what happened?” Porthos asks in the hall.

“He said a bloke turned up. Dirty blond, apparently. Straggly hair. That’s all I learned so far.”

Porthos goes very still. “Marsac?”

Athos’ heart flutters and stops, and he falls back against the wall. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck.”

They rejoin d’Artagnan, who’s busy typing something on his mobile. “All right?” he asks when they come in. 

“That bloke,” Porthos says, “was he called Marsac?”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan looks from one to the other. “Who is he?”

Athos and Porthos exchange a look.

“It’s not our story to tell,” Athos says calmly. His heart is beating in his throat, and his stomach is a tight knot, but his voice is his own still.

“He’s going to hear it sooner or later,” Porthos says. “Now that Marsac,” he spits the name, “is back.”

“He won’t stay,” Athos says, against his own conviction. Why else should Marsac come back if not to insinuate himself into Aramis’ life again?

“You can tell me,” d’Artagnan says earnestly. He stands up, walks over to Athos and puts a hand on his arm. “Trust me. I already know they were friends.”

“They were more than that,” Porthos says darkly.

“Oh.” D’Artagnan frowns. “I didn’t know Aramis is gay. I thought because of Adele …”

“He’s not,” Porthos says.

‘Adele,’ Athos thinks.

Adele, Adele, Adele. Is she still in the picture? He thought her gone, after that row Aramis and she had over the Cardinal. It all makes sense now. Four times. Four times he was in bed with Aramis, not counting the first time, and Aramis has never tried to… He never tried anything. He continues to handle Athos gently, irritatingly so. He kisses Athos and touches him, and he watches him finish himself off. He fully accepted that Athos doesn’t come unless it’s by his own hand. And that’s it. Aramis never tries to make Athos get him off in turn, leaving the decision entirely – and literally – in Athos’ hand. It is as if he’s not bothered, and Athos now knows why. Aramis is getting his sex somewhere else.

Adele is still there. Marsac came back. Athos drinks his beer and thinks of all those things he never did with Aramis; and of all those things that he wants to do with him, and Aramis is just not bothered.

A vague memory resurfaces: of Marsac singing with Aramis. They shared a mic with an intimacy that struck Athos as indecent even then and sang harmonies looking at each other. He walked in on them later, Aramis’ shirt undone and Marsac’s hand buried in his hair, both breathless and laughing at getting caught. Back then, Athos merely rolled his eyes at them and continued on his way. Today, he’d gladly punch his fist all the way through Marsac’s skull.

“What happened at Lake Geneva?” d’Artagnan asks, looking from Athos to Porthos and back again. 

Athos raises his eyebrows. “How do you know about Lake Geneva?”

“That bloke, Marsac, told Aramis he mustn’t forget Lake Geneva. It sounded dramatic,” d’Artagnan shrugs and sits down on the armrest of the sofa. “And then Aramis ordered the vodka and it all got pretty confusing pretty quickly. So Marsac’s Aramis’ ex?”

“They were best mates,” Porthos says darkly.

“Perhaps I should tell the story,” Athos says to Porthos. “You never liked him.”

“You never knew him.”

“I knew him well enough to know the facts.” He leans against the shelf and crosses his arms. “I’m only telling you this so that you don’t get a distorted version from somebody else.”

“You mean your version will not be distorted?” d’Artagnan says, shaking his head pityingly. 

Porthos grins despite himself. Athos shoots him a filthy look.

“Five years ago,” he says, “Aramis was involved in anti-globalisation protests. So was Marsac. And then the G8 summit at Lake Geneva happened, you probably heard about it.”

“Five years ago the boy was still at school,” Porthos says.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t watch the news,” d’Artagnan shoots back. 

“Well. In that case you know that the protest escalated. Police were sent after the protesters, houses were raided. People got hurt.” Athos glances at Porthos, who is looking more and more thunderous with every second. Porthos has never got over Lake Geneva, even less than Aramis has. “Aramis’ group got stuck in a tunnel, and people kept pouring in from both sides.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan nods, “right.”

“Aramis and his group ended up in the very centre of mass panic. Half a dozen of his friends were trampled to death,” Athos continues; he feels his voice getting harder with every word and forces himself to speak in his usual tone. “He was injured.”

“How did he survive?”

“Marsac dragged him to safety.”

“So he helped him?”

Porthos snorts. “He left him,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“He dragged him out of the tunnel, but left him outside.”

“Dumped him among dead bodies,” Porthos snarls. 

“What!” D’Artagnan looks shaken. 

“Yeah, he just left him lying there, for god knows how long.” Porthos is losing it. If he had the chance, Athos is sure he’d strangle Marsac with his bare hands. “In the pouring rain.”

“Was Aramis badly injured?”

“Concussion, shock and hypothermia,” Athos says. “He was incredibly lucky.”

“That’s how he got that scar on his temple,” Porthos says, pointing to the side of his own face. 

“His hair hides most of it,” Athos says. “You can barely see it, unless you know it’s there.”

“And the scar on his back,” Porthos continues. “That’s from there, too. And one on his arm.”

A white line that runs along the back of Aramis’ left arm, curling around his elbow. Athos traced it with his finger only a few days ago. Aramis is so lucky to be alive. They are so lucky to still have him.

The shrill sound of the doorbell slashes through the silence that has fallen after Porthos’ last words. They all startle, and Porthos looks vaguely sheepish. “It’s Flea,” he says. “She’s coming over tonight.” He strides out of the room and they hear his heavy steps on the floorboards in the hall.

D’Artagnan gets to his feet. “I should be going,” he says. “Thanks for the beer. And thank you for telling me, I really appreciate it.”

Athos acknowledges his thanks with a nod. “You witnessed Marsac’s return. And you made sure Aramis got home safely,” he says. “You’ve earned yourself the right to know.”

D’Artagnan frowns. “Where has Marsac been?”

“Nobody knows. He disappeared after it happened and was never heard of again. To my knowledge, Aramis hasn’t seen him for five years.”

Porthos’ footsteps return, accompanied by the lighter tread of female feet. “Hello boys,” Flea says. She’s dressed in a steampunkish blouse and corset combo, a multi-layered skirt and combat boots, and her hair is an artfully disarranged mess “Has anyone died?” she asks. “Or why are you looking so grim?”

Porthos bites his lip and looks away.

“Oh, fuck,” Flea says. “Did I put my foot in it? Did somebody die?”

“Quite the contrary,” Athos says. “Somebody came back to life.”

~*~

“I better make sure he’s okay tonight,” Porthos says, chewing his lip. He and Athos have just seen d’Artagnan out and are conferring in whispers by the door. “If he was simply drunk, I’d let him sleep it off. But he-” His eyes focus on the darkness that obscures the door to Aramis’ room, at the far end of the corridor. “He might wake up. I don’t want him to be alone.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Athos offers in an offhand voice.

“You sure?” Porthos is clearly torn between his sense of responsibility and his desire to lock himself up in his bedroom with his girlfriend.

“I’m sure.” Athos turns on his heel before Porthos can make up his mind, walks down the length of the corridor, past the bikes, the shelves, the assorted debris of ten years of cohabitation, climbs the five steps onto the landing, enters Aramis’ room and closes the door behind himself. They had left the bedside lamp on; the room is bathed in warm light, and it smells of Aramis. Athos breathes in deeply, and feels the knotted muscles of his throat, his chest and stomach relax. Aramis is curled up on his side, his face is almost entirely obscured by his hair and one hand is peeking out from under the duvet, palm-upward. The nail polish on his ring finger is chipped, and the stamp on the inside of his wrist looks like an indigo-blue wound.

Athos undresses down to his boxers, turns off the light and gets into bed, which is crammed into the narrow space under the slanted ceiling. Athos ducks his head, crawls over Aramis and lowers himself onto the futon on the wall side. He slips under the duvet carefully, so as not to wake Aramis. He can’t help the sigh escaping him the moment his skin makes contact with Aramis’. The way his body moulds itself into Aramis’ feels entirely natural; he never realised how familiar Aramis has become. He wraps an arm around Aramis, pulls him against his chest and reaches out blindly for his hand. It’s icy cold, and Athos covers it with his and pulls them both under the duvet. “You’re such an idiot, you know that?” he mutters into Aramis’ hair, above the spot where he knows the scar lies hidden.

~*~

When he wakes, the room is sunlit and hot. They didn’t pull down the blinds last night, and the slanted attic window above the bed lets in the full glare of the sun. Aramis is sprawled on the mattress and on Athos, and where their skin touches, it is sticky and itches. The heat weighs down on him and Athos is too languid and lazy to move. Aramis stirs, mutters something unintelligible, and Athos’ heart quivers. But then Aramis begins to pull his limbs off Athos, and he rolls away and gets up. Athos hears the door open and close.

He sighs and burrows his face in the pillow. His head is woozy, with sleep and with heat, and he can’t be bothered to get up yet. They never shared a morning in bed. Athos made sure to get up before Aramis was awake, and twice Aramis didn’t even spend the night, because one of them had an early start and they politely didn’t want to be in each other’s way. This unspoken arrangement suited Athos just right; he doubted their nightly fumblings would stand the scrutiny of merciless morning light.

He’s drifting off to sleep when the door creaks and Aramis comes back in. Athos doesn’t move; Aramis opens the window above the desk, and then the one above the bed and lets in a blessed draft. The air is still hot, but at least it’s no longer stagnant. Athos wills himself to lie still; he listens for the tell-tale sound of wardrobe doors, of drawers, but he feels Aramis get back into bed instead. In the next moment, Aramis wraps himself around Athos, with one arm around his chest and his face buried in the back of Athos’ neck. He smells freshly showered, and his skin is cool and damp. 

“Good morning,” Aramis whispers into his hair. 

“Good morning,” he answers, because pretending to be asleep would be idiotic under the circumstances, considering the speed and force of his pulse at the base of his neck. Aramis splays his hand over Athos’ chest – in invitation or to ask for permission, Athos isn’t sure. His head is spinning with all the things that he should say, but their sheer number is so overwhelming, he doesn’t know where to start. The unsaid things are piling up. Had he thought about it in advance, he’d have assumed that Aramis would take care of the talking. Aramis has the ability to analyse and articulate feelings, Athos has seen him handle emotional situations skilfully in the past. Yet with him, Aramis maintains a determined silence.

He pushes down on the feeling of resentment that is ballooning inside his chest. He’s taking this much too seriously, as usual. They’re friends, Aramis and he, and the fact that they use each other for an occasional handjob doesn’t mean… Doesn’t mean anything, really.

Athos is torn between irritation and lust when he turns over and pushes Aramis on his back, throwing him off balance by the suddenness of the assault and eliciting a surprised gasp in the process. Aramis’ touch does things to him now. It’s like his body has been conditioned, like some sort of libidinous Pavlov’s dog, to anticipate pleasure whenever Aramis touches it. He’s hard and he’s hot, and he wants to rub himself into Aramis and to lose himself, for once.

Aramis stares up at him with huge eyes that look almost completely black against his still-pale face and the white bed linen. Athos lowers his head and nips at the base of his throat, tugging at the delicate skin there with his teeth. Aramis gasps again, throws his head back and clutches Athos’ hair.

This is easy, much easier than he thought it’d be. Athos bites his way down Aramis’ chest and stomach, and he hesitates for only a fraction of a second before pulling down the waistband of his pants. Aramis’ erection is a familiar sight by now, and Athos crouches between Aramis’ legs and licks a firm path from the base of his cock to the tip. 

“Oh fuck yes please,” Aramis whispers. The hand in Athos’ hair convulses. Aramis releases his grip and clutches the bed linen instead, but Athos takes his hand and lifts it back to where it rested in his hair. His mouth is too dry for this, but on the whole he’s less nervous than expected. He _knows_ what to do. He grabs Aramis’ cock at the base, reaches for the water on the nightstand, drinks, and spits a mouthful over Aramis crotch. The water makes his cock glisten and his stomach flutters when stray drops hit it. Athos bends his head and sucks him in as deep as he can. Aramis arches, a long, sinuous curve, and groans, and Athos feels as if he’s just ripped out Aramis’ heart through his ribcage. He comes back up, trailing his tongue along the underside of Aramis’ cock, and licks across the tip. This really is easy. He wonders why he’s never done this before. 

Aramis opens his eyes and treats him to that dark, direct stare of his. Athos smirks and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Aramis’ head falls back onto the pillow. “Please,” he says, passing his free hand over his eyes. “Don’t stop.”

Athos presses one hand to Aramis’ chest, just above his heart, to feel the throb of Aramis’ blood under his palm as well as between his lips. When Aramis’ hips begin to jerk as his control slips, Athos drags his hand down his body, fingers flexed into claws hard enough to leave scratch marks. He _feels_ Aramis come apart under his mouth and hands; it is a physical sensation for him, the way Aramis’ arousal translates into groans and vibrations that shake his entire body. He envies him at that moment, envies him the ability to lose himself. Aramis’ blissed-out abandon is complete, he’s suspended in the pleasure of the here and now. 

The hand in his hair tenses. “I’m going to come,” Aramis gasps out, tugging at Athos’ hair.

Athos lifts his mouth off Aramis’ cock momentarily. “Good. Good to see my efforts have not been wasted.” He dives back in and sucks him in to the hilt. Aramis curses and comes in a gush in Athos’ mouth. Athos pulls back just enough to stop himself from choking. He’s familiar with the taste by now, but having it flood his mouth all at once is different than licking it off his own fingers. The taste is sharper, headier, and he swallows some and lets the rest trickle out of his mouth and onto Aramis groin and stomach.

“Oh fuck,” Aramis says with a strangled laugh. “I didn’t expect that.” His chest is rising and falling rapidly and the skin of his thighs and stomach ripples with the aftershocks of pleasure. He props up his head on his bent arm and is lying very still with his eyes closed. Athos raises himself to his knees. He drinks from the water bottle and takes in Aramis’ body that is spread before him so shamelessly. He’s never looked at him in bright sunlight before, not like this. Every hair on his body, the birthmarks on his neck and on his chest, the faint scars, stand out starkly against his skin. 

Athos shuffles up to the head of the bed to put the bottle back on the nightstand, and Aramis opens his eyes. They stare at each other for a heartbeat or two, and then Aramis’ hand alights on Athos’ hip. With a sudden jolt, Athos realises that he’s been so wrapped up in the experience of sucking off Aramis that his own arousal didn’t quite register. His hard-on is clearly outlined under the fabric of his boxers, and Aramis’ thumb brushes over the damp patch beneath the waistband.

Athos clenches his teeth, shoves his pants down his hips and pushes his cock between Aramis’ parted lips. Aramis opens his mouth and _sucks_. The slick pressure makes Athos’ head spin. He feels Aramis swallow, feels his tongue tense and then relax against his cock, and pushes in with a shallow thrust of his hips. Aramis’ teeth scrape over his skin, a pleasure-pain that makes his thighs clench. He leans in and tugs Aramis’ arm free from beneath his head. The angle changes, there’s suddenly more space, and he can press in even deeper. Athos never lets go of Aramis’ wrist; he leans across, balancing over Aramis’ face, and shifts his weight to the one spot where he’s pinning down Aramis’ arm above his head. When Aramis groans around his cock, the vibrations thrum through him, dissipate in his blood and nerves.

Athos wraps his other hand around Aramis’ throat, forcing him to tilt his head back. Aramis arches; not just his neck, his entire body curves off the mattress, and he slides his lips along Athos’ cock, pulling his mouth away as far as he can. He’s holding Athos’ gaze as he does that, as firm and confident as the pressure of his mouth, and his hand moves from Athos’ hip to his arse. Athos tightens the grip around Aramis’ throat, thumb and forefinger digging into the hard edges of his jaw. Aramis’ throat tenses under his palm as he swallows, and then, “Oh fuck,” Athos snarls, and his hips lurch forward because Aramis dug in his nails into the flesh of his arse. He’s buried balls-deep in Aramis’ mouth, and his vision is starting to blur. 

Aramis hums, and how can he look so smug with his mouth stretched around another man’s cock like this?, and he drags his hand from Athos’ arse around the jut of his hip to his crotch, a teasing caress that does not prepare Athos for what’s to come. Aramis’ hand snakes under his cock, cups his balls for a moment and pushes deeper between his legs. Even before he has time to assess the sensation so far, a finger slips between his arse cheeks, and then there’s pressure, soft yet insistent, against his hole.

Athos groans and his cock spasms in Aramis’ mouth. He’s got enough self-control not to shift his weight to the hand around Aramis’ throat, and he hangs over Aramis, and how can it be that he’s suddenly found himself at Aramis’ mercy, when he’s pinning him to the mattress with both hands and fucking his mouth? And yet here he is, panting and shaking, and his body is floating away from him. His hips lurch forward again, harder, and Aramis gags.

“Sorry!” Athos chokes out. “Fuck, sorry, sorry.” He lets go of Aramis’ throat and is pulling back, but Aramis’ hand between his legs is holding him in place. Aramis lifts his head, sucks him back in and pushes the tip of his finger into Athos. Athos cries out. The push and pull is too much, and his orgasm hits him without warning. He comes in shuddering spasms into Aramis’ mouth and collapses in a sweaty, shaky heap.

Aramis frees his wrist from Athos’ loosened grip and kisses Athos on the mouth. “Why didn’t you say you like getting fingered?” His voice is full of tenderness as he’s pulling Athos close. “I’d have done it sooner.”

Athos mutters something indistinctive into Aramis’ chest. He’s not sure if he’s forming words at all. 

“What?” Aramis laughs softly. “Never mind. I know now. I can think of one or two things that you’ll enjoy.”

Athos rolls off him and onto his back. He’s lying there, blinking up at the low ceiling, and trying to process what just happened. He glances at Aramis from the side just in time to see Aramis feel his own throat where Athos’ fingers have left their marks. “Sorry I hurt you,” Athos whispers in a low voice. The euphoria is draining rapidly, and shame and panic are surging in in its wake. Oh god, this is just like in some sort of abusive porn, and what has come over him? His body’s desire to orgasm overcame all rational consideration, and Athos panics at the thought.

“A bit. But not in a bad way.” Aramis turns to him smiling, but his smile fades as he catches sight of Athos’ face. He takes Athos’ hand. “It’s all right,” he says earnestly. “Truly, it is. I let you do it. I wanted you to do it. I could’ve stopped you at any time, trust me.” He presses Athos’ hand to his chest. “If you don’t trust me to know my limits, how is this supposed to work?”

Athos nods cautiously. He’s not entirely convinced. How can he trust Aramis, if he doesn’t trust himself? He’s not sure what he’s capable of when he loses control, and the thought frightens him.

~*~

When he comes into the kitchen to take a shower, Porthos is making breakfast. The shower is occupied by Flea, and Athos hangs his towel over a chair and fetches his toothbrush from the mug labelled ‘Athos’ in the cupboard above the sink. He wonders briefly if any of Aramis’ casual flings are granted the honour of having their own bathroom supplies too, but a cursory glance around the cupboard tells him that his and Flea’s are the only guest mugs. His instinct tells him it won’t take long for d’Artagnan to get one, too. The boy is clearly infatuated with them. After last night, there’s no way he’ll stay away from Aramis and Porthos’ flat for long. The way he was looking at him last night, Athos muses, brushing his teeth and trying to not be in Porthos’ way, that deep, soulful gaze; the way he came up to Athos and asked him to trust him, with that expression of earnestness and adoration-

“Excuse me.” Porthos nudges him and Athos steps aside to let Porthos use the sink. He looks idly at Porthos’ hands, how large they are; his gaze travels higher, up his arms, the broad shoulders, to his face, he takes in the freakishly long eyelashes, and Porthos is smiling at him, that wide, beaming smile that makes everything around him light up, and-

Oh god, I’m turning gay, Athos thinks. 

So. This is new. He’s never looked at men like this before. And fuck, how did this happen?

No, okay, he knows how it happened. You can’t have sex with another man for weeks and expect for your perception to remain the same as before. Perhaps I’m developing the female gaze, Athos muses idly, rinsing his mouth. That could be quite useful actually.

Porthos hands him the coffee pot. “Make yourself useful and lay the table, won’t ya?”

Athos walks past the shower cubicle and up the five steps that lead to the dining area. Just like Aramis’ room, what is now the elevated landing in the kitchen used to be an attic room that was at some point integrated into the flat. Athos wipes the large oak table with a dishcloth and, ducking his head under the slanted ceiling, fetches plates and silverware from the cupboard under the window. 

Porthos comes over carrying a large frying pan with both hands. “Full English,” he tells Athos. “Extra for you.”

“I’m honoured,” Athos says. “You do understand that not every English person has bacon, eggs and sausages-”

“And fried tomatoes.”

“…and fried tomatoes for breakfast every day? I’ll have you know that this kind of stereotyping is wounding.”

“Says the member of a nation who thinks that we all wear lederhosen all the time.” Porthos sits down across Athos and begins ladling up scrambled egg onto his plate. “What about Aramis?” Porthos asks without looking at him, which is lucky, because Athos feels a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

“Still asleep.”

“I thought he was already up? Wasn’t it him in the shower before?”

“He fell asleep again.” Athos keeps his voice entirely level.

Aramis reached out to him, after that rather awkward conversation. All it took was the tiniest gesture from Athos, and Aramis rolled into his embrace in a heartbeat. Athos startled. Aramis was shivering – not like a man suffering from cold, but like an athlete who overexerted his muscles. “All right?” Athos asked, drawing him close. “Do tell if there’s anything wrong.”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Aramis said, but there was just a bit too much force behind his grip around Athos’ arm. Athos ran a hand through his hair and felt him relax, bit by bit. It occurred to him for the first time that all that touching he’d always thought was playful and flirty was, in fact, necessary. That it was in his, Athos’, power to make Aramis _feel_ , in the same way that Aramis made him feel. 

“So you two then, eh?” Porthos says causally.

Athos sighs. This is it then.

“Sort of,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s always sort of with him, isn’t it?”

“And you disapprove.”

“Nah. Just didn’t think you’re into that sort of thing. Or into blokes.”

“I’m not.”

Porthos grins. “Just gay for him?”

Athos eyes him levelly. How the fuck is he to explain that thing with Aramis if he doesn’t quite understand it himself? “You’re the one to talk,” he says. “I still have flashbacks to that birthday party of yours where you took a shower with him, right here. Constance took some very interesting pictures.”

Porthos laughs. “It was just a shower, we didn’t get up to anything. Just a bit of clean fun to entertain the masses.” He hands Athos the basket with the bread rolls. “I don’t fancy blokes,” he shrugs.

“You sound very sure.”

“I am very sure.” Porthos smiles broadly. “It’s not that I never dabbled. That’s how I know that I don’t like cock.”

“No. Neither do I.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m not sure he does.” Athos says slowly, staring into his coffee with unseeing eyes. Something is slotting into place.

Aramis doesn’t like _cock_. He likes skin, and sweat, and the heat that rises between their bodies when they grind into each other and that feels solid like a corporeal entity.

~*~

Flea comes out of the shower wearing one of Porthos’ t-shirts that falls down almost to her knees. “Good morning,” she says to Athos. “How’s the patient?”

“Stable. He’s gone back to sleep.”

Porthos pours her a cup of coffee and she helps herself to bacon and eggs. “Any exciting plans for today?” she asks Athos.

Athos shrugs. “I’ve got a lot on,” he says. “I need to finish that festival trailer for Mother Superior. She wrote me a very firmly worded email about it.”

“What about that ad?” Porthos asks. “The one where Aramis was nipple wrangler, are you editing it or is he?”

“He is.”

“Nipple wrangler?” Flea raises her eyebrows. “He has the most exciting life, doesn’t he?”

“It was an ad for a bathroom fixtures business,” Athos explains. “They used a bare-chested model, but since you can’t show nipples on television-”

“Female nipples,” Flea intercuts.

“Female nipples. Since you can’t show them, someone must make sure they stay out of shot. Aramis’ job was to keep track of them on the monitor.”

“That sounds rather counterintuitive, making Aramis the moral guardian. Are you sure he didn’t sneak in any nipples? An areola perhaps?”

“Darling!” Porthos says with great force to his words. “Sweetheart. Light of my life. Please let me finish my breakfast. If you keep up this kind of talk, I’ll be forced to drag you back into my room straightaway.” They beam at each other across the table.

“Sorry, Athos,” Flea says. “Porthos, stop this. We’re embarrassing Athos.”

“I doubt it,” Porthos says. “I doubt there’s anything _we_ could do to embarrass him.”

Athos smirks at him over the rim of his cup. “What are you doing today, then?” he asks.

“Porthos is going to show my girls and boys how to edit mobile phone films to perfection.” 

“They have the technology,” Porthos says. “All they need is the technique.”

“Kids today,” Athos says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “They don’t know how lucky they are.”

They exchange a grim smile. Flea works with asylum seekers and with refugees; with kids who live in perpetual uncertainty and with those who already know that they are illegal. ‘Lucky’ is not exactly a word any of them would use to describe them. She and Porthos have launched the film project to enable the kids to tell their own stories. Porthos extracted the promise from a very bad-tempered Treville to grant them a spot in the next festival schedule. “They won’t be longer than three minutes each,” Porthos said. “We need a one-hour block tops.”

“Louis won’t like it,” Treville looked at the printout of the project pitch that Porthos had handed to him.

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s the CEO.”

“Do you think Treville will be able to sneak it in past Louis?” Athos asks.

“Past Louis? Easy. Past the Cardinal? Hardly.”

The door creaks, and Aramis drags himself into the kitchen. He looks bruised and sore, and Athos’ stomach clenches. 

“Good morning, Madame,” he kisses Flea on the top of the head, smiling. “Any coffee left?”

He lets himself drop into the chair opposite the window, blinking against the sunlight. Athos stares at him and looks away. The bruises under Aramis’ jaw are dark against his skin. 

“Good party, was it?” Flea say, indicating his neck. 

Aramis frowns, grins and passes his hand down his throat. “Mmh. I enjoyed it. Thanks!” he takes the coffee pot that Porthos is handing him with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “Do we have any orange juice?”

Porthos gets up and walks down the steps to the fridge. He returns with a juice carton, puts it on the table before Aramis, stands behind Aramis’ chair and puts one hand on his shoulder. Aramis’ reaction is instantaneous; he closes his eyes and tips his head back, leaning it against Porthos’ stomach. Porthos strokes his hair almost absentmindedly, and Athos’ insides are burning. How could he? How could he have fucked Aramis’ mouth like that, hard and painful? The coffee turns bitter in his mouth, as the familiar spiral of guilt unfurls in the pit of his stomach.

Aramis opens his eyes and looks straight at Athos. He smiles a faint imitation of a smile, and it does nothing to reassure Athos.

“I’ve got to go.” Flea is standing up. “Thanks for the breakfast, boys.”

“You’re welcome,” Aramis says with a hint of his usual humour. “It was a pleasure.”

“You, my friend, are doing the dishes,” Porthos says. He holds out his hand to Flea. “C’mon, then. Let’s get you dressed.”

Aramis turns round and watches them leap down the steps and disappear behind the door, laughing. He turns back to Athos. “Disgusting,” he says, shaking his head with a fond little smile. 

Athos looks at him, calmly. He’s aware that his face has tightened into a dispassionate mask.

Aramis raises his eyebrows at him. “Any breakfast left?”

“Help yourself.” Athos pushes the frying pan towards him. “I-” Aramis looks up at him sharply; expectantly. “I’ll do the dishes.”

“The dishwasher does the dishes,” Aramis tells him as Athos collects the dirty plates from the table. Athos shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “It’s my little secret,” Aramis continues, punctuating his words by flourishing his fork. “Porthos always leaves me to do the dishes, and I pretend I did. But really I’m in league with the machines.”

Athos fills the dishwasher, cleans away the mess that Porthos left on the worktop, grabs his towel and gets into the shower. When he comes out again, Aramis is standing with his back to him, as though arrested in mid-stride on his way to the door, his head bent, staring at something in his hand.

“So!” Aramis turns around, hitching a smile onto his face and shoving his mobile into his pocket. “Why is it that I tidy up your kitchen and you mine?”

“Because this is how we repay each other’s hospitality.”

Aramis runs his hand through his hair and looks around, as if seeing the place for the first time. “Yeah, perhaps. A very domestic arrangement, don’t you think?” He taps his knuckles against the purring dishwasher.

Athos walks over, leans against the tiled stove and crosses his arms. “Aramis,” he says, trying and failing to keep exasperation out of his voice.

“I should go too.” Aramis avoids his eyes as he walks past him, making for the door. “I’m meeting Marsac.”

This is it. The moment Athos has been dreading ever since last night. Aramis’ words drop like icy rocks into the pit of his stomach, and he freezes from the inside out. His fury is rarely hot; he wields his anger like a cold sword, which people mistake for control. But it’s not that. He’s not in control of his anger, just as a man shouting and lashing out in rage is not in control of his. 

“No you’re not,” he says in a low voice.

“What?” Aramis stops and turns. “Are you,” he laughs, “ _ordering_ me?”

“Aramis.” Athos breathes in and out, very deliberately. “Aramis. Before you go down that road again,” _the road of guilt, of shame, of remorse_ , “ask yourself: what then?”

“I don’t know what then,” Aramis says. He, too, is angry. His fury is white-hot, like molten steel, and just as dangerous when it spills over. “That’s why I have to go and meet him.”

“You don’t owe him anything.”

“I owe him my life.”

There it is. Athos was prepared for this argument to come, and he should’ve had a counterstrike ready, but he doesn’t. A life debt trumps everything. 

“He left you to die.” Athos is aware that his level tone is not calming Aramis down, quite the contrary. Aramis is seething with fury. 

“You have no idea,” Aramis spits out through clenched teeth. “You weren’t there.”

“Neither was he.” Athos hasn’t noticed when they have moved, but the distance between them has shrunk, and they are snarling into each other’s face. “He wasn’t there for you. Aramis.” He stops Aramis, who has taken another half-step at him, with a hand to his waist. “What will it take to make you understand this?”

Something terrible flashes in Aramis’ dark eyes. It flickers and dies. “He panicked,” he says in a much calmer voice. “You don’t understand that. I do. He panicked and he ran away.”

“All right,” Athos agrees. “He panicked, that’s understandable. But, Aramis, he disappeared completely. He never came back to you. He left you to deal with it on your own.” With the trauma and guilt, and with the longing. Because the most dreadful thing about it, as far as Athos remembers, was how much Aramis _missed_ Marsac. 

“And you, on your high horse of _impeccable_ morals, think that past mistakes must never be forgiven,” Aramis throws into his face. 

Whether by accident or by design, Athos isn’t sure, but Aramis has hit the one weak spot that makes the red mist rise inside his head. Athos slams his fist against the fridge, level with Aramis’ face. “You fucking idiot,” he hisses. “I don’t want you to get _hurt_. You’re a mess, Aramis, you came back a mess last night, and you’ve been shaky all morning.” Aramis glares at him, and Athos almost expects Aramis to push him away, but he doesn’t. 

Aramis licks his lips. “So I’m supposed to do nothing?” he says, and the effort of keeping his voice quiet is unmistakable in its tremble.

“For today. You’re in no fit state to deal with it today.”

Aramis’ eyes dart away from his face and then back. “I’ve got to listen to what he has to say,” he says earnestly, with that long, direct gaze that seems to invite Athos to read his soul. “If I don’t like it, I’ll do anything that you want. I promise.” He presses his hand to his heart.

Athos feels his limbs go weak with relief as tension drains from his muscles. “All right. Do it tomorrow. Sleep on it. Think about what _you_ want to tell _him_.”

Aramis tilts his head back until it bumps into the fridge. The bruises under his jaw are not fading. They’ll be even darker tomorrow, and Athos feels something like owner’s pride. Aramis will go to meet Marsac wearing Athos’ marks.

“What?” Aramis asks.

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

“Surely not.” He hasn’t realised that his expression has slipped out of his control. 

“You must be very proud,” Aramis says, almost conversationally.

“Do you mean in specific or general terms?”

“Both, actually. But just now, you looked like the cat that got the cream.” Aramis touches his fingertips to Athos’ face and brushes the pad of his thumb over the corner of his mouth. 

This is embarrassing. It’s as if he was a teenager again. He virtually feels his blood siphon out of his limbs and pool into his groin, at the merest touch of Aramis’ hand. He tilts his head a fraction into the warmth of Aramis’ palm. His body is still thrumming from the argument, and his nerve ends are on fire. 

Aramis’ mobile beeps, jolting them both back from the haze into which they were about to fall. Aramis blinks and pulls it out from his jeans pocket. His face freezes.

“Tell him you’ll meet him tomorrow,” Athos says with emphasis.

Aramis stares at the phone in his palm as if it was a ticking bomb. Athos is about to take it off him and type the fucking text himself, but Aramis suddenly unfreezes. He types quickly, without giving himself time to think, and shoves it back into his pocket. “I set it to mute,” he explains.

“Good.”

That’s all he’s got time for. Aramis wraps his hand around the nape of his neck and kisses him, hard and deep, delving into his mouth with his tongue and teeth. He thrusts his other hand between their both bodies and cups Athos’ cock through his jeans. Athos groans. He’s still half hard from before, and his body is being flung into a new wave of arousal. “Mmh,” Aramis hums appreciatively against Athos’ lips. “Can I get you off again, do you think?”

Athos groans and shoves Aramis against the fridge. Aramis moans into his mouth, and Athos grabs him by the hair with one hand and pushes the other under his t-shirt. He scratches his nails over the curve of Aramis’ ribs and relishes in the way Aramis’ entire body tenses at the sensation. “Wait, wait,” Aramis gasps.

“What?” he pulls back with a throbbing mouth and a throbbing cock. Please don’t stop now.

“I’m not allowed,” Aramis gasps.

“What?”

“I’m not allowed, in the kitchen. I had to promise Porthos I won’t have sex in the kitchen. He’s worried about spunk stains on the table.”

Athos stares at him. “Have you actually gone insane?”

“I know. But that’s literally what he said.”

“We are nowhere near the table.”

“I think Porthos considers spunk stains on any work surface unhygienic.”

Athos opens his mouth to tell him what he thinks about that, but Aramis kisses him. “Do you really want to do it here,” he murmurs into languid kisses, “when there’s a bed just across the hall?”

The futon dips under their combined weight when they fall onto it in a tangle of limbs. Aramis has lost his t-shirt already and writhes out of his jeans. He tugs at Athos’ waistband, and Athos lets himself fall into his embrace and into breathless kisses that leave him dizzy and inarticulate. “I want to let me don’t stop-” His mouth is spitting out a stream of one-syllable words. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah,” Aramis says, his eyes murky with desire, and swipes his hand down Athos’ chest. “I know.”

They calm down a little, then, but only so they don’t miss out on any of the sensations. Aramis unbuttons Athos’ jeans, and Athos watches his fingers. The black nail polish gives them an alien appearance. Athos traces a path from Aramis’ finger to his wrist and then up his arm. This is familiar; the lines of Aramis’ arms, the way he throws his arms open to allow Athos access to his body. When Athos pulls off his own jeans and sits astride Aramis, Aramis raises himself on his elbows and watches Athos grind himself against his groin. 

Athos pushes Aramis’ hair back from his face and kisses him on the temple. “What do you want?”

Aramis falls back, arms spread wide. “Everything.” He laughs shakily. “Surprise me.”

Athos stretches himself atop Aramis and licks a trail from his collarbone, over the curve of his shoulder, and down, dipping his mouth into the hollow of Aramis’ armpit. Aramis reacts instantly, stretching his arms out above his head. His skin erupts in goosebumps and his nipples tauten. They’re hard when Athos’ drags his tongue across Aramis’ chest.

Inside Athos’ head, thoughts are whirling around in mad circles. Everything. He believes Aramis when he says that. He could do everything he wants with Aramis, and there is something scary about the prospect of being handed the carte blanche. Too much liberty, Athos finds, and with it too much responsibility. Aramis trusts him implicitly to make the right decision, and Athos feels he has not yet earned that trust.

“I don’t want to fuck you,” he says, in an attempt to hit on the right thing through the process of elimination.

Aramis smiles with one corner of his mouth without opening his eyes. “Good.”

That expression of smug self-complacency must not be permitted to linger, Athos decides. He leans in and licks into Aramis’ mouth until Aramis moans and arches, and, holding Aramis’ hands above his head, says: “You were wondering if you can get me off again, as I recall.” He rolls off and stretches out on the futon. “Go on, then. Try.”

Aramis laughs, and he smiles as if he couldn’t help himself when he kisses down Athos’ body, touching his skin with confident fingers and a mouth that has no right to know so exactly what Athos likes. He sucks at the hollow under his hipbone as he pulls off Athos’ pants, snakes his hand under Athos’ thigh and wraps his arm around it. There’s something forbidding about the black nails as they rest on Athos’ hip. “Trust me,” Aramis whispers, looking up at him from between his legs. His mouth hovers inches above Athos’ cock. He lowers his head and licks, gently, across the tip. “You can watch if you like,” he says. 

The spot where Aramis is kneeling on the bed is fully illuminated by the sun. Its light conjures metallic highlights in his hair and gives his eyes an otherworldly appearance; it looks like someone had switched on LEDs behind the dark irises. Athos can see every line on his face, every grey hair and every discoloration of skin. It’s too much, the sensory overload is too great. He can’t watch Aramis, not in this raw, unfiltered close-up.

Aramis brushes a smile against the inside of his thigh. “Or you can lie back and close your eyes.” He leans across, reaches for the nightstand and picks a plastic tube from the drawer. “Trust me,” he says again and kisses Athos on the jaw. “This is something you like.”

Athos does like it. His skin from navel to knee is tender from the bites and raspy kisses with which Aramis assaulted him for an eternity, until Athos grabbed his hair and pulled him towards his cock. Aramis obliged by sucking him in deeply in one go. The heat and pressure, the hint of teeth at the base of his cock were exquisite agony. He almost didn’t notice, at first, the path Aramis’ hand took as it slithered between his legs. His hips jerked up, hard, but the arm wrapped around his thigh tethered him.

Aramis sucks him leisurely, almost casually, in a slow, steady rhythm. When the heat of his mouth suddenly withdraws, Athos opens his eyes with a sound of protest. Aramis is wiping his mouth on his own shoulder and catches his eye. Athos expects him to smile, but instead, an expression of intense focus appears in Aramis’ eyes, like the one he wears when handling a particularly tricky shot. And then the pressure of Aramis’ finger between Athos’ legs intensifies. It’s slick and slippery, but then everything is. Despite the light breeze, the room is sweltering hot, and they both glisten with sweat. The bed sheets beneath Athos are soaked, and sweat is drying in patches all over his body, gluing hairs on his chest and legs together. 

Aramis’ gaze flickers downward for a moment, to where his hand is burying itself under Athos, but it comes back up straightaway, and he watches Athos’ face as he presses the pad of his finger against Athos’ arsehole. Athos’ breath stops, and so does his heart. Both restart, sending a jolt of electrifying pleasure through his body. Aramis pushes his finger in and stills.

It is good. Good and fuck and god and more, and he’s back on monosyllables, some of which spill out of his mouth. Others spin around in his head, and his head spins with them. He’s being fingerfucked and he fucks himself back, pushing down on Aramis’ fingers with sharp, desperate jerks of his body. His world narrows, until he’s anchored to it only by the few hotspots that have erupted under Aramis’ hands and mouth. And just as he feels this is it, just as pleasure becomes all-consuming and absolute, the old panic that always accompanies loss of control begins to creep in, and oh no no no, not now, his mind begins to reel, dragging him away from pleasure and towards pain; just then Aramis sucks a long path along the underside of his cock with his lips, from base to tip, and then fucks Athos’ cock with his mouth. 

Athos comes with three long thrusts and spasming thighs.

“I almost lost you there for one moment, I thought,” Aramis says casually some time later, when they are lying side by side, their arms and legs pressed together. Aramis has threaded his fingers through Athos’ but more contact of skin on skin would be unbearable in this heat.

“How do you know?” Athos is too slow-witted and too astonished to deny anything. The heat and orgasm-induced torpor is affecting his brain. It’s not the first time Aramis has said something like that, something that implied that he was able to read Athos like an open book. “Seriously, how do you know these things?”

Aramis glances at the window with a small smile and runs his hand through his hair. “I usually do,” he says. “Intuition? Empathy? Experience? Take your pick.”

“Is that your secret superpower?” Athos looks at him from the side. “The ability to read people through sex?”

“We all search for truth in different ways,” Aramis says.

“Good god.” Athos loads his words with as much sarcasm as he can. He can’t help being impressed, though. Aramis has managed to make him lose himself completely for a moment, and even though that didn’t last and Athos staggered back from the brink before he could fall, it was more than he experienced in years.

“What about you?” he asks a while later, when his breath has evened out completely and his head has cleared somewhat. “What do you want?”

Aramis’ head is averted, and he doesn’t turn to look at Athos. He shakes his head. “No, I… I’m a bit preoccupied,” he says. “Sorry.” Athos sees him glance in the direction of his discarded jeans; his mobile is in the pocket.

This, at least, is familiar ground.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Truly, it is. I just don’t want to be selfish.”

Aramis reacts to the last word. “You’re not!” he says, rolling onto his side to look at Athos. “You are… surprisingly generous, actually.” He laughs and brushes his lips over Athos’ mouth in a not-quite-kiss. “But you were right before, I am a mess.”

Athos’ chest contracts at this admission. He barely dares breathe, waiting if there’s more to come.

“I need to figure out what to do about it. About Marsac.”

“Yeah.” Athos tightens the grip of his fingers around Aramis’ hand. “Do you want me to go?” he asks in an unconcerned tone. “Or to stay?”

Aramis shakes his head, staring off into the distance. “Stay,” he says, falling back into the pillows. “If you don’t mind that I’ll just lie here, thinking,” he adds with a note of humour that breaks Athos’ heart.

“Well, considering that it was my advice that you do some thinking,” Athos says. “I can hardly complain.”

“Sound logical reasoning like this is why Porthos and I keep you around in the first place.”

“You’d be lost without it.”

Aramis falls silent, and the drowsiness of a summer afternoon descends over the room. Mother Superior and her trailer be damned, Athos decides. This is important. Procrastination may be the thief of time, but, as Porthos noted only last night, he has taken to crime surprisingly well.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the 1991 French Film Tous les matins du monde (English: All the Mornings of the World). It is set during the reign of Louis XIV and shows the life of Marin Marais, a 17th/18th century musician who, as JWAB told me, was a master of the viola da gamba.
> 
> Aramis and Porthos' flat is fictional, but it's quite plausible. Berlin has been massively gentrified in the last few years, but before that, a self-installed shower in the kitchen and coal stoves would have been nothing out of the ordinary. Likewise communal bathrooms and toilets in the staircase. 
> 
> The G8 summit at Lake Geneva is fictional. I just wanted to use the place of the Savoy massacre and the time frame of five years.
> 
> I'm using British English: "pants" = "underwear". I can't be bothered to write "boxers" or "boxer briefs" every time, it's too clunky. If anybody wants to visualise it better (and why shouldn't one?), here's pictorial aid: [Aramis and Athos in their pants](http://donnaimmaculata.tumblr.com/post/99636093056) (pic courtesy of [monamemonetoile](http://monamemonetoile.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr).


End file.
